The Failing Hours

It’s suited me fine for fifteen years.

I’m still fuming when I waltz into the grocery store, grab a cart from the corral, and push it up and down each aisle with purpose, tossing food in without slowing my stride.

Steel-cut oats. Agave nectar. Walnuts.

I saunter to the nutrition and organics section, hands automatically reaching for the protein powder, gripping the black plastic container in one hand, and lobbing it in among the deli meat, bread, and bottles of water.

Turning the aisle and pushing the cart on the right side of the aisle, I skid to a halt, almost plowing into a little girl on her tiptoes, reaching toward a shelf. Her black curly hair is pulled tightly into two pigtails, her string-bean arms straining toward a box she’ll never reach.

Even on the balls of her feet.

Plus, she’s in my way.

“Dammit kid, I almost hit you,” I growl. “You might want to pay more attention.”

She ignores my warning.

“Can you get that down for me?” Her grubby little fingers wiggle toward a red box of sugar cones, forefinger pointing toward the top shelf. I note that her tiny digits are painted glittery blue, and there are bits of dirt encrusted under her nail beds.

“Should you be talking to strangers?” I scold down at her but pluck the box off the shelf anyway, gruffly shoving it toward her grasping hands. Glance around. Notice for the first time that she’s unsupervised. “Jesus Christ kid, where are your parents?”

“At school.”

“At school?”

“My dad works and my mom is in college.”

“Who the hell are you with?”

The little squirt ignores me, tilting her head, narrowing her unblinking beady brown eyes at me. “You’re saying bad words.”

I’m not in the mood to play nice, so I narrow mine back. “I’m an adult. I can say whatever the hell I want.”

“I’m telling.” Her little mouth puckers disapprovingly and I can feel her silently judging me; I bet she’s a real joy to have in class.

“Yeah, okay kid—you do that.”

“Summer?” calls a loud feminine voice from somewhere around a corner. In a flurry of gray and white, the owner of that voice comes skidding around the corner, gasping for breath when she sees us.

“Oh my god, there you are!”

She falls to her knees.

Pulls the scrawny kid to her body in an embrace. “Oh my g-god,” the woman repeats, stuttering. “Sweetie, you cannot just walk off like that! You scared me half to d-death. Didn’t you hear me calling your name?”

The kid—Summer, apparently—holds her ground, trying to wiggle free. “I was getting ice cream cones and sprinkles.”

“Summer.” The woman pulls the little girl into an embrace. Takes a shaky breath. “Summer, when I-I couldn’t find you, I thought someone had kidnapped you. I thought I was going to have a h-heart attack.”

“I was right here, Vi,” the kid squeaks out into the woman’s jacket, fighting to breathe through the struggle cuddle. “This boy was getting my cones.”

This boy?

I put my hands up. “Whoa kid, do not drag me down into the gutter with you.”

It’s then that the woman senses my presence and looks up. Up. Up, into my impassive, irritated eyes.

Our eyes lock and I’m startled to realize she’s not as old as I thought; she’s a young woman, one that looks vaguely familiar.

Her eyes are a brilliant shade of hazel, widening with a flash of panic and recognition at the sight of me, probably because I’m casting an unfriendly frown down at her. I intimidate most people and take pride in it.

Her lips part but no sound comes out, nothing but a startled squeak. She recovers quickly, hugging the girl tighter and smoothing her hands down the girl’s weak little forearms.

“W-Were y-you waiting with her long?”

When I realize she’s speaking to me, a snort escapes my nose and I ignore her question, instead pointing out the obvious.

“Lady, you make a shitty nanny. She could have been kidnapped.”

Her head and shoulders dip, ashamed. “I know! B-Believe me, I know.”

The young woman’s mouth clamps shut again, chin trembling. Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, she swallows nervously. “Thank you for helping her.”

“Helping? That’s funny. I’m no good Samaritan.” I don’t want her thanks or to prolong this litany of mind-numbing chitchat. “All I did was prevent her from toppling the display rack. She’s short as shit.”

“Well th-thank you nonetheless.” Another quick squeeze around the little kid’s shoulders and the young woman stands.

Petite, I gauge her height at around five foot five—tiny compared to my six feet. Wide hazel eyes. Thick blonde hair so pale it looks white, falling down over her shoulder in an intricate, wholesome braid. My gaze immediately falls to the neckline of her well-worn Iowa sweatshirt for an appraisal of her chest.

Flat.

Bummer, must suck.

I study her flushed face through narrowed, dubious eyes. “Do I know you?”

She swallows, glancing to the right. “I-I don’t think so?”

I can’t stand liars.

“I do know you. You live at the library.”

An errant strand of hair that’s not even in her face gets brushed aside. “I-I work at the library, yes. I also do some babysitting for enrolled students with daycare-aged ch-children and in Student Services.”